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Na novel the author describes the

scenes amid which the events of his story are supposed to take place. Such descriptions are often a very interesting portion of the story and greatly aid the reader in understanding the characters of the personages. In these times of cheap reproductive processes it has become the custom to illustrate the novel, so fully that the eye may be addressed by artistic pictures that tell even more than the printed words of the author.

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A play is a story illustrated from beginning to end. Its performance is one continuous series of pictures. It is told in large part by pictures and its scenes are continually before us from beginning to end. The proscenium opening, completely filled by the curtain when it is down, becomes the frame of a great picture when the curtain is drawn up. an ordinary picture, be it engraving, photograph, oil or water-color painting, there is one flat surface of paper or canvas within the frame. A stage picture may consist of a number of canvases. In a picture the perspective of the scene is suggested by the drawing; in the stage picture perspective may be partly suggested and partly real.

Suppose the curtain rises and shows us a room in a house. A picture might show the same room in a frame a few inches square. Now we have a picture approaching the actual size. of a real room. The sides and ceiling of the room are not only painted to represent a room, but make an actual room in which the characters

of the story will appear as a part of the picture. There is, however, this difference; the room is much higher than an ordinary room and it is so arranged that we can see every part of it from any seat in the theatre. The high ceiling enables our friends in the gallery to have an unobstructed view of all parts of the scenic picture. There may be doors or archways leading to another room or to several other rooms, and here again the perspective of the picture is secured by actual spaces and walls beyond those we see in the front of the picture. Doors and windows, curtains and portieres may also be real while the walls and ceilings may be painted canvas. In many instances stairrails, a balustrade or trellis round a porch may be painted or it may be real or built up of wood and then painted. The scenic artist desires to make his picture as real as possible, because living men and women are to be in it and a part of it. In like manner an exterior scene, a country road, a farm-yard, or a street and the houses, fences, rocks or trees may be painted on canvas or formed out of wood or other materials to give an appearance of projection or modeling. Painted picture may be hung behind picture in a series and thus give the effect of distance. Perspective is still farther increased by making a "builtup" or "set house" with outlines that follow the lines of perspective so that both the painting and the actual shape of the painted work will tend to heighten the artistic illusion.

The scenes presented in our best

theatres are usually, in greater or less degree, real works of art. Large sums of money are spent on the scenic effects of a play and often when a new play is produced and pictures by our best artists are shown, the audience signifies its approval of really beautiful and artistic work by generous applause. A fine scene is a wonderful help to a play and a good play deserves good illustrations, because the picture tells so much even before the actual story begins. In In the hands of an artist it becomes suggestive, imaginative, even poetical. Again, we shall observe that as the play goes on, beautiful effects of night and morning, sunset and moonrise, can be given to the pictures by means of gas and electric lights. The lighting of the stage thus becomes full of interest and greatly enhances the artistic value of the pictures and, at the same time, assists us in understanding and enjoying the play.

In an illustration, or picture, the furniture is drawn or suggested. In a stage picture the actual furniture is used and becomes a real part of the picture. At the same time, the living people who are also a part of the picture use the chairs and tables precisely as in real life and this tends to greatly enhance the illusion of the picture. It is to increase this that all scenic effects are designed. The picture disclosed by the curtain is and must be largely an illusion. Common cotton and muslin may look like satin, the painted scene may look like the interior of a costly and sumptuous house, and we who sit it the darkened theatre accept and enjoy the illusion. The whole play, indeed, is an artistic illusion. So we never ask if the silks be real silk or not. If the effect is there and if that effect is artistic, it is enough. For this reason it is never wise to go behind the scenes of a theatre. Let us keep the illusions, for if they be lost half our pleasure in the play is destroyed.

The back of every stage is always disappointing and often disagreeable.

Thus the scenery of a play is an integral part of the play. It tells more than words can tell. It should tell just what the author wishes us to know about the time and place of the story. It tells us about the actual appearance and color of things, just as the furniture may tell us the style of the house, just as the costumes of the actors may tell us whether the season be summer or winter, day or night, modern times or past times. A picture hanging on the wall of the scenic room may help us to understand the character of the house. It may even tell a part of the story and say more than words. A notable illustration of this may be seen in Bronson Howard's play, "Aristocracy," where two pictures on the wall of a room, while merely referred to in the play, really express more than any words could.

When the curtain rises and shows us the scene we may see one or more people in the stage picture. Their appearance, dress, positions and apparent occupations also tell us a part of the story. They are, at the same time, a part of the picture itself and assist in giving us the first impression made upon us.

A play is like a piece of music in this respect; it is given or performed from beginning to end and it must be complete in itself or it is only a fragment without value or meaning. But in listening to a sonata or symphony we need know nothing more about it than it actually tells A play differs from a piece of music in almost always requiring an explanation. Being a story of human experience it must, first of all, explain what has happened before the curtain rises. It is a story told in the present tense. It is as if it actually happened before us and in our presence; but something must have happened to these people before we met them. There

must have been "precurtain events," and these must be given to us at once and quickly in order that we may understand and appreciate the story that is about to be told.

Take the opening lines of almost any French or English play written, say, twenty-five years ago. They often begin by presenting to us a man and a woman brushing up an old baronial hall. Says he, "It is years since the young master has seen his father's halls." Says she, "The rats have been driven out of the guest chamber and the dining-room chimney smokes. The young master brings his bride to a ruinous old castle overrun with mice and mortgages." Says he, "Bless her innocent heart, she won't care, no more would I, darlint, if you will be me bride."

"Which I won't" says she. Here are some "precurtain" facts about the story that follows. We learn that the young master is coming home with his bride and that the family estate is in a bad way owing to circumstances that happened a long time before. We already pity the poor bride coming to such a home and to such servants. All this is clumsy and awkward, and yet it is absolutely necessary that we have the facts.

Our dramatists to-day are much more skilful and give us, within the first few moments, all that we need to know concerning events that precede the story, and this in the most simple and natural manner and in the fewest possible words. ExplanaExplanations are necessary-the art consists in making them clear, brief and interesting. As an illustration we may take the opening lines of "The Grey Mare," a modern English play that has been given in all our large cities. The curtain rises on a breakfast room and as one after the other members of the family come down to breakfast, we are amused to see that they are all cross, peevish and out of sorts.

Almost without a word being said we learn that there must have been a whole pantry of family jars-mostly pickles-opened the night before. The very first lines spoken by each character explain what happened and we are unconsciously led into a complicated net work of most amusing circumstances that happened before we looked in on the family. Having thus been informed of these things, our curiosity is aroused and we wait with interest to see what will happen next. This is the fine art of playwriting--to explain quickly and fully and without appearing to explain. To understand this subject more fully, read the first six speeches in "The Lady of Lyons" and see how much is condensed into the first five minutes of the performance.

The most critical point in a play usually follows these explanatory lines at the beginning of the story. We have come to be amused, entertained, perhaps instructed. We listen with patience to these first lines, because they are essential to a clear understanding of the situation. The real, actual story must now begin. Having seen some of the people of the story and learned their names and relations, we are interested to see and hear what they will do and say under the circumstances described. These things make the play.

There was once a young person from the country who was taken for the first time in his life to see a play. On returning home he was asked to tell about it. He had not the gift of tongues, and could only say that he went into a large room where there were a lot of people and that "pretty soon somebody pulled up a curtain. and they could look right into the next house." "What were they doing there?" "They just acted just like common folks."

Here is one of the great charms of the acted drama. We sit, as it were,

presence.

apart and look in on human lives. These lives appear (or should appear) to be completely isolated from our The people think and speak as if quite alone. We watch and listen to people unconscious of any human presence. .As a result they act their real selves. We see their hearts, their inmost selves and, as the real motives of human beings can hardly fail to be interesting, we become deeply interested in all they do and say. If we stop and think a moment we see that this is a highly intellectual pleasure, perhaps the greatest we can have. The proper study of mankind is man. Here we study man under exceptional circum

stances.

As the play progresses we find out that we know more about the lives of the personages than they do themselves. For instance, when Claude Melnotte is presented to Pauline as the Prince of Como, she is not aware that he is only the gardener's son. We know that, and we want to tell her of the mistake and thus save her a great deal of trouble. As we can not, we sit apart with this superior knowledge, absorbed in wonder as to how it will end. As the play progresses we are more and more deeply interested in Pauline and try to imagine what she will do when she learns the truth. Will it break her heart? When the moment of discovery comes we watch her every look and gesture with absorbing interest. We have our own ideas of what she should do or what we would do, were we in her place. Every instant our interest increases, our sympathies are more moved. When, at last, we learn just what she does we see that it is just what we hoped she would do. We have, as it were, lived her life with her. We forget our own lives and by sympathy live other lives and if these lives be pure and good and noble, we are better for having seen and sympathized with them.

Manifestly the way to see a play is to pay attention to the necessary explanations at the beginning, to fix in the mind, for the time being, the names of the characters of the story and then to observe in silence, neither speaking to our neighbors nor permitting them to speak to us. There will be time enough for the commonplace at the end of the act.

Naturally there are many plays that do not appeal to our sympathies, plays of humor, of merely pictorial interest and plays that simply amuse. These are so called "farce comedies" and spectacular plays. While they have their place and use, they can not be classed as intellectual. A real play or drama is an intellectual work of art. It may be amusing in places and it must be entertaining (which is quite another matter) because the first requisite of a play is that it shall take us out of ourselves, shall interest us. It is a recreation to hear a good play, because it appeals to the heart, it moves the emotions, awakes our sympathies and shows us higher ideals of life and conduct, and the performance of such a play is and must be an intellectual pleasure.

These other plays that are designed merely to amuse without appealing in the least degree to our sympathies are just as much, in their narrow limits, true works of art. Very many of them are highly intellectual and yet quite devoid of what is called "heart interest." They are funny and amusing in an intellectual manner and may be artistic without being emotional. The farce comedies, almost without story and often without any intellectual merit whatever, may also in a limited way be artistic by being pictorial and playfully amusing. Next to these are entertainments, divided into acts and often labeled as plays, that serve a good purpose in making an audience laugh for an hour or more. The humor may be refined and it may be vulgar,

The once familiar farce called " Charley's Aunt" is an example of this idea carried to extremes. The young man who puts on the old woman's clothes is known to the audience to be a man and not a woman. Some of the people in the story mistake him for a woman; hence these tears of laughter. The idea is very old. It is in several other plays and it seems to have the power of amusing many generations of men. Under some other title and under other circumstances it will probably continue to amuse generations yet unborn.

quence" is becoming wide-spread. Nearly all public speakers of local and national reputation are referred to as orators, and, in the public eye, men are eloquent who can start a tear, provoke laughter, or win applause. The apparent result is that the country is filled with hundreds, perhaps thousands of orators and men of eloquence, while in reality the orators of our day could be counted on one's finger-tips. It is unfortunate that a false impression is made upon the minds of the rising generation the consequence of which is an underestimate of the worth of oratory and the sublimity of eloquence.

What makes an orator and what constitutes eloquence are two questions which it would be well not only for the student, but for all to underclearly. While both oratory and eloquence are produced through the medium of the human voice, there is yet a wide difference between thema distinction even more positive than that between a major and a minor

He

Ora

dependent upon the other. A man may be an orator and not be eloquent. He may be an eloquent and not understand a rule of oratory. may be both, and when he possesses so rare a combination of oratory and eloquence there is no better name to apply to him than that which some misguided critics call tautalogicalan eloquent orator. Man acquires oratory. Eloquence acquires man. Man uses oratory like a toy. Eloquence sways man like a beil. tory is governed by certain principles and rules which are applied according to one's learning. The orator aims to persuade, and his success in persuasion and conviction depends not only upon his knowledge of men and things and all the branches of learning in which Cicero declared an orator should be versed, but upon the proper use of the voice, of sophistries, dilemmas, syllogisms, and all the artifices and rules acquired by study. Eloquence, on the other hand, is wholly natural, passionate, spontaneous-an attribute given by God.